Dead Anyway (27 page)

I used the onboard GPS in the Mercedes to find their house. It was up in the northern, wooded region of Greenwich at the end of a long, intentionally curvy driveway. The house itself was a loose collection of square, white boxes with vertical siding and vast picture windows.

Nitzy greeted us at the door in either a very big sweater or a very short knit tunic, black leotards and black, fur-covered boots. Behind her stood a tiny balding guy, at least three inches shorter than his wife, in a silk T-shirt and sport coat, both perfectly color coordinated with Nitzy’s reddish-brown sweater thing. Both held huge wine glasses containing barely an inch of wine.

“Aidan, allow me to present the Grenouilles,” said Nitzy, as she herded us into the house.

He bowed as he shook our hands and spoke a line of French that I didn’t quite understand. Something about being honored to have fellow countrymen visit him in his humble home. I answered in kind, though far more crudely, explaining that I was second-generation French, which my terrible accent must surely make clear.

He smiled and said, “What is an accent but a manner of speaking? My parents immigrated to Lyon from Mexico City when I was ten years old. I grew up having Frenchmen constantly answer my questions in Spanish.
Vin
?” He held up his glass and named the label, another demonstration of his linguistic acumen. “It’s one of our winter favorites.”

Before they could escort us toward the living room, I took a moment to compliment the twelve by twelve Wilson Franklin hanging in the two-story foyer. It depicted a young girl watching a boxing match from the front row of the stadium. Nitzy stood behind Natsumi and held her by both arms as we all looked up in veneration.

“Some of them you just have to bring home, don’t you think?” said Nitzy. “If I couldn’t have beautiful things surrounding me, I wouldn’t feel like life was worth living.”

“You home is very beautiful,” said Natsumi.

“Everyone thinks it’s Le Corbusier, but it’s actually Willa Petersen, one of his students,” said Nitzy. “I frankly think she’s head and shoulders better, but who’s objective about their own house?”

As with the rest of the place, the walls, floors and ceiling of the living room were a satin white, better to display the paintings, fabric hangings and sculpture that filled the space. Some of the artists I recognized from the gallery or my own research, though most were unknown to me. A situation duly remedied by another hour’s lecture on the origins and intricacies of contemporary art. Nitzy did all the work. Aidan focused on the wine and sustaining an admiring and admirable silence. When she seemed nearly spent, he said, “Nitzy tells me you have some hell of a party in mind.”

Nitzy gestured at us as if bestowing permission to speak.

“We do,” said Natsumi. “It’s so exciting that the Bellefonte Gallery has agreed to be the beneficiary.”

“No less exciting for us,” said Aidan. “It takes a great deal of money to collect at this level. And lately, with the Russians and Chinese and Brazilians all getting into the act, the price pressure is getting nuts.”

“We’re only too happy to help,” I said.

“You know something about price pressure in your work, Auric,” said Aidan. “Commodities is it?”

“It is.”

He waited for me to offer more, and when I didn’t he said, “Commodities scare me, I have to admit. I don’t have the nerve for it. Too much like the wild west. I’m just a dull old securities trader. So your dodge is oil, wheat, pork bellies . . . ?”

“Precious metals,” I said, “though not in the open market. I prefer to call it strategic trading.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Nitzy, looking over at her husband as if to say, see, there’s something intriguing about this guy.

“It’s pretty esoteric, and frankly, really boring when you get down to it,” I said. “You’re right, this is excellent wine. Charlene, tell our hosts more about your party plans.”

Which she did, lavishing appreciation on Nitzy for having contributed to both the concept and the planned arrangements. Nitzy took it all in with “but of course” written all over her face.

“So the theme is ‘Gold and Silver, Fire and Ice,’ ” said Aidan. “Seems appropriate for a precious metals trader. Will you be giving away some of your product?”

“Well, we’re prepared to do just that,” I said, as conspiratorially as I could. “Maybe the rumor of such a possibility will assure a good turnout.”

Causing even a brief moment of speechlessness in Nitzy Bellefonte wasn’t an easy task.

“Oh, my,” she said, finally, “what absolutely delicious fun. I will definitely get the word out. I’m sorry—the rumor.”

She stretched out the last word in a loud whisper, then sat back and clapped her hands. Natsumi clapped hers as well. I looked at her adoringly and Aidan looked at me with narrowing eyes.

“Auric Grenouille is a fascinating name,” he said. “And unusual. In fact, Google’s never heard of you.”

“That’s on purpose,” said Nitzy. “I told you that.”

“You’ll have to give me the name of the people who keep your privacy,” said Aidan. “There’s too little of that these days.”

“Charlene, you must love vintage clothing,” said Nitzy, jumping out of her seat and grasping Nitzy’s wrists. “Come along, you have to see what I have stored upstairs.”

Natsumi went docilely and I was left alone with Aidan Pico. He leaned closer to me, as if he could be overheard by his wife.

“Enough of this wine shit. How ’bout a real drink?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry. I have the capacity of a five-year-old. But please, you go ahead.”

“I will.”

He went across the room to what looked like a raised-paneled wall, pushed one of the panels and it swung open, presenting a shelf with a tiny ice chest, a few chunky glasses and a bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. He poured himself a stiff one.

After he settled back into the opulent white couch and drained off about a third of the drink, he said, “What level of trade are you into? Can’t help it, just curious. What sort of numbers? And tell me to stick it up my ass if I’m getting too nosy.”

“Seven to ten figures. Depending on a lot of variables. This crappy economy is warping the spreads, which isn’t all bad if you know how to play it. Most of the product comes out of bad places, so there’s another wild card. But that’s manageable. And I’m not going for the home run. Too easy to strike out. Don’t get greedy, keep a low profile and ignore crazy run-ups. They’re always followed by blow-ups.”

“Interesting.”

“Profitable,” I said, then asked him to tell me all about his business, which he did in great detail, helped along by my well-worn interview techniques. He was so engrossed in his own story, he almost missed the return of Nitzy and Natsumi, who were wearing different clothes from the ones they left in.

“We had a fashion show,” said Nitzy. “I have all these vintage and designer things from the last fund-raiser. I have to give it away to get the tax break, but it’s so hard to let go, even though one of the bedrooms is floor to ceiling. At least your gorgeous wife has a few new outfits to honor your visit.”

Natsumi was wearing a relatively modest white camisole under a red jacket that barely reached her waist, a tight black skirt and pumps that had her nearly on tiptoes. Her unhappiness with the situation was apparent to me, though clearly lost on Nitzy and Aidan.

“Isn’t she the bee’s knees?” said Aidan, before gulping another large mouthful of bourbon. “And you, Nitzy, a vision.”

So she was, in a floor-length dress with bunched up fabric growing out of it everywhere, and a narrow neckline that nonetheless plunged about as far as anatomically possible. She struck a pose that had to be restruck after briefly losing her footing.

“We have to stop polishing these floors, Aidan. They’re too slippery.”

Sober as a judge, I was able to time a strategic withdrawal. Natsumi was alert to the moment, and helped with the transition.

After several rounds of thank you’s, two-handed handshakes, cheek kisses and hugs, we were out the door—Natsumi unsteady on the heels, holding a fabric Gucci bag full of the clothing she’d arrived in, as well as a few items more, and me holding her.

“Well,” said Natsumi, slumping down in her seat as if to avoid deadly fire from the rear, “that was interesting.”

“Love the new threads.”

“Women wear these on purpose,” she said, kicking off the shoes. “I wouldn’t even if my mother hadn’t forbidden it. You can get a nosebleed from the altitude.”

“I think she likes you.”

“As a little Asian doll. I’m ready for anything, Alex, but playing dress-up with Nitzy Bellefonte sort of pushes the creepiness factor.”

“It was all a pretext to get me alone with Aidan so he could pry.”

“How did he do?” she asked.

“Fine, for our purposes. Not so sure for his.”

“Does money always warp people?”

“I believe money only warps the warpable. But I don’t have all the data,” I said.

We sat in silence for a while. Then she said, “You’re one of the unwarpable. I can tell, even without the data.”

I thanked her and we retreated back to our grand mansion, our eager Colombians and a greater appreciation for the deeper pleasures of the placidly mundane, even as fantasy and delusion swept up around us like a swirling, uncontrollable tide.

T
HE WEEKS
before the party sped by with reckless abandon. Mostly because there was so much to do, and so little time to do it. The plan we’d made held firm, meaning each of us had equal amounts of too much to do, but it undoubtedly served its purpose in getting it all done.

Throughout, Natsumi maintained her lively level-headedness and I my dour determination.

Perhaps the only unwise assignment for me was to audition and secure the fire dancers. No amount of online research can prepare one for the sight of attractive, flimsily clad people twirling lit batons and exhaling vast clouds of billowing flame. Nonetheless, I hired one of the candidate troupes, based more on their willingness to reveal the inner workings of their craft than the actual thrill of the performance.

It didn’t hurt that they were French Canadian. They pledged the greatest party ever.

“Monsieur Grenouille, nous allons presenter un spectacle le plus stupefiant au monde.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

D
ISTRACTED AS
I was, Evelyn was right to be angry over the long delay in hearing from me.

“You didn’t answer my last email,” she said.

“You’re right. I was going to, then forgot.”

“That’s not like you.”

“It’s getting harder to tell what is and what isn’t like me,” I said.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“I have a new accomplice. I stupidly exposed her to a very dangerous person, so I had to bring her along with me.”

“Her?”

“Yes, and yes before you ask,” I said.

“My, my. Now I know why you aren’t yourself.”

“It’s more than that, but you’re probably right. It changes things.”

“I wish you could tell me more.”

“I have the name of the person behind the one who pulled the trigger. It’s an alias, of course. His modus operandi is to be invisible and unreachable, but I have a plan. It isn’t fully formed, but I’m already committed, so we’ll have to see.”

“But why, Arthur? How could such a person have anything to do with Florencia?”

I hesitated before answering, which made the answer more difficult to frame.

“I think I know. But until I’m sure, I don’t want to say. Not over the phone.”

“You told me these disposables were secure.”

“As long as no one has any reason to listen in,” I said. “I can’t say that for certain anymore.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“I can’t tell you things if you aren’t prepared to be disturbed.”

“Okay. You’re right,” she said.

“I just have a question for you. Had you seen any changes in Florencia in recent years? In mood, behavior, anything?”

“No. Never. She had that great Latin, ‘The world is crazy, Evelyn, so let’s go have some fun’ thing about her. All the time. I don’t suppose you can tell me why you’re asking.”

Her imitation of Florencia’s Spanish-inflected English was painfully accurate.

“Not yet. By the way, how’re the agency’s new owners doing? Any word?”

“Haven’t heard a thing. Bruce had plenty of time to prepare the transition. Said it went very smoothly. He’s now completely retired to his home in the Virgin Islands, God bless him.”

I only held her on the line long enough to provide some feeble reassurances and another apology. We hung up with feelings intact on both ends.

T
HAT EVENING
I got an alert of a new email connected to the account I’d used to monitor the video camera trained on Shelly Gross.

It said: “Still interested in selling that Mercedes, Alex?”

As the implications sank in, I felt a blast of heat across my torso and a fuzzy roar building in my head. I took deep breaths to calm my mind and short-circuit a blizzard of panic responses that sought to animate reckless action.

In theory, he could know everything that I’d done under the name Alex Rimes. All the bank accounts, all the credit cards, all the purchases and rental agreements. He could know the identity was purloined from an unfortunate guy in Alaska. He could trace everything back to Gerry’s shop at the clock factory. From there, by contacting Gerry in Amsterdam, he could make the link to another dead guy named Arthur Cathcart.

He could learn that Alex had recently bought, and then soon after sold, a food truck business. Linking that to a heist of precious metals from Collingsworth Machine Tool and Metals Company was unlikely, since CMT&M were not yet aware of a potential heist. He also couldn’t know that Alex Rimes had now moved uptown and taken on a new identity, since I was meticulous in walling off Alex from Mr. Frog.

On the other hand, my saner self argued, setting up that account required nothing but a bunch of made-up data. No Social Security number, no credit card, just a registration. It was conceivable that the site recorded my computer’s MAC address, but unlikely. And even so, I’d paid cash for the computer and given the retail outlet more false information, so it was untraceable to me by itself.